All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  Vera bit her lip. “Don’t you have savings?”

  I hesitated mid-scratch, stretching my fingers out. Her bluntness still managed to surprise me sometimes. John’s face scrunched up, but it didn’t stop her. “Like a safety net, you know?”

  “Not really,” I said quietly. “And I don’t have my parents to fall back on for help. We don’t have to talk about it.”

  John caught my eye. “Sorry,” he said. “We spend so much time together, we’ve forgotten what’s appropriate.”

  “Exactly,” Vera said, ignoring his point. “We’ve been spending almost every day together. I’d think that by now we could be direct with each other.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I just can’t go on like this for many more months.”

  “You’re our guest,” John cut in. “Let’s just call tonight our treat.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “We want to,” he said. “Really.”

  Vera nodded, only there was something else there. A but in her expression. She and John exchanged a glance. He shook his head so slightly it was almost imperceptible, then scratched at one of his cuticles. Suddenly, there was a wall, invisible but impenetrable, them on one side, me on the other. Only this time, it wasn’t about long-abandoned Rachel; this time, somehow, it was about me.

  “We might as well,” Vera started.

  “Oh, come on, V,” John sighed. “Not right now. Not when we’re—”

  “She deserves to know,” she snapped.

  Her words shook me, and I felt my pulse tick up.

  John’s smile deflated, but his eyes split me in two, imploring me to forgive whatever was about to be said. “I’m sorry, Lucy, we didn’t want to say anything just yet.” He cleared his throat. “Everything’s been so good. I know we’ve only known each other, what is it? Two months? It’s just we’ve all gotten so close, and we don’t want to screw that up.” He bit his lip. “But since Vera’s already begun . . .”

  It was less than two months, actually, but those six weeks had seemingly changed everything.

  John took Vera’s hand in his, and they stared at me, and for a second, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I thought they were going to ask me to have a threesome. The truth is, I can’t say I hadn’t thought about it. The truth is, I would absolutely say yes.

  Vera took a deep breath. “See, you don’t have to worry about spending money for several more months—not with us, at least.”

  “Huh?”

  “John has to leave,” she said finally, her hand slipping from his.

  I noticed the wine spilling first. I’d dropped my glass, and the liquid swam over their wide walnut table, where there were already many stains.

  “Sorry,” I said, turning the glass right side up, but the wine was already a bull’s-eye the size of a dinner plate.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Vera said, tossing one of her linen napkins on top. Ruining it, surely.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean, leave? You guys are separating or something?” I asked, the words sharp, slicing at the security we’d established.

  Vera laughed. “No, of course not.”

  “Far from it,” John said, as jealousy stabbed at me instead. They were as rock-solid as the table—stained, wine-soaked, but held together.

  Vera cleared her throat. “I suppose I didn’t start off quite right. I’m leaving, too.” Her lips pressed together, as if that were somehow answer enough.

  “What?” I asked, heart pounding brutally. She’d said she’d protect me, but was I disposable to them, a human takeout container? Toss it in the trash when you’re done—no need to do the dishes.

  They were like family to me. They were supposed to be, at least. My dream, finally realized, after so much pain and heartache.

  They exchanged another glance, trading invisible secrets. They were married, a team; I, an extra cog. I shouldn’t have been so naive. “Should I?” she asked.

  “Go ahead,” he said, but his shoulders slumped.

  “John and I are not splitting up,” Vera said, taking his hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “But he is going to be heading up north.”

  North? I figured we were far enough north already. “What for? To paint?” The words sounded stupid as soon as they were out of my mouth. I scratched at my forehead, at baby hairs matted down, droplets of sweat.

  “No, no,” Vera said. A smile stretched across her face, but it was too thin. Forced. I knew her well enough to tell the difference. “He needs to get out of Woodstock for a while. Things”—she eyed him briefly—“are escalating.”

  “Escalating?”

  “There are . . . well, I know this sounds dramatic, but there are people here who want to hurt me,” John added.

  I stared at him. It did sound dramatic—of course it did—but at the same time, I’d been waiting for this, for some sort of explanation that tied it all together—the graffiti, Maggie’s obvious dislike of them, their hesitancy to go into town, the slashed tires. Was it more than an affair? Something somehow worse? John was so good—so steady and strong—it was hard to imagine someone wanting to do him actual harm.

  Vera took a deep breath. “The details aren’t important. The point is, John’s going to disappear for a bit. It’s for the best.”

  My eyes ping-ponged back and forth, as the word disappear stuck to the sides of my brain. I was the disappearer, not John. Not her, too.

  “Not really disappear,” she added, with a laugh. “And I’m going to join him, once I settle up the gallery business and get the farmhouse set up as a rental. We were trying to think of the best way to tell you, but now that you mentioned money, it seems almost perfect, you know. We could actually help you. You could manage things for us, while we’re gone. The gallery, the farmhouse. The money could help get you back on your feet, and you’d still have plenty of time to write.”

  I stared at her—at my friend, my protector, my Vera. “Just like that?” I asked, my voice already hitting an embarrassingly high pitch. “You’re leaving? And you want me to work for you? Christ. Way to let me know.”

  “Not work for us,” Vera said. “You just said money was tight. We’ve been meaning to tell you anyway, and we thought . . .”

  “It’s getting late.” I scooted my chair back quickly, and it caught the bottom of my stretchy skirt, one I’d borrowed from Vera. I walked briskly to the kitchen, plucked my keys from among the clutter of takeout containers, and made for the kitchen door.

  “I’m sorry this is so messed up,” John said, rushing up behind me. “We didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” I turned. He stood only a foot from me, his forehead beaded with sweat. I had the most overwhelming desire to kiss him, turn my crush into something real, grab his face in my hands, feel the swaths of stubble on his cheeks, taste our dinner on his tongue. Run back to Vera, tell her what I’d done, remind her that if she could fuck with my security, I could fuck with hers, too. I could try, at least.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  In seconds I was out the back door. It had begun to rain, and a light drizzle kissed my forearms. I hastened down their driveway, making my way through the dark, ignoring the sounds of wind through grass, coyote howls and owl hoots, the smells of ozone and earth. In the distance, I heard a clatter of thunder as the wind picked up, pushing at me. By the time I got to my cottage, I was out of breath. I’d left the porch light on, hazy yellow, and drops of rain stood out on my shirt, speckled like blood spatter. Another clap of thunder; the rain picked up, crying.

  The door.

  It was ajar, a thin but unmistakable opening, a clean, laser-cut slice in the wood. Pulse pounding like a migraine, my throat unbearably tight, I shoved it open. “Dusty,” I called. I flipped on the lights frantically. “Dusty!”


  An empty room. I strained to hear the pitter-patter of doggy paws, dreading the sound of a human’s footsteps, of Davis’s, instead. Nothing.

  “Dusty,” I called louder. I rushed into the bedroom and scanned the room, grabbing my dad’s hammer in the process. My sheets were ruffled as they had been when I left, and my computer was closed—hadn’t I left it open?

  “Dusty!” I cried, sprinting back to the living room.

  In the kitchen, I fumbled for the lights.

  Dusty sat upright, taking me in, his tail a metronome. I let out a deep sigh, lungs deflating. The doggie door swung behind him. I’d apparently trained him to use the thing right. Hot tears filled my eyes as I knelt to scratch beneath his chin.

  “Did you miss me?” I asked him, and he licked my hand. “Are we going to be okay?” He cocked his head to the side. He didn’t know the answer, either.

  I returned to the living room, locked the front door, and checked it twice. It didn’t close properly unless you bolted it; I knew that, which is why I always did—no matter what.

  Grabbing my notebook, I checked every item in the house against my ever-changing inventory, as I had every day since I’d gotten here, but nothing was out of place. I must have forgotten to lock the door; it was the only logical explanation.

  Forcing myself to breathe, I brushed my teeth, topped off Dusty’s food, drank more water, and sank into bed, but the thoughts were insistent: I couldn’t do this alone; I couldn’t be here without them. She’d told me I wouldn’t have to. She’d told me they would protect me. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to be stupid, I wasn’t going to trust where I shouldn’t, but they had convinced me to let my guard down, and now look how that had turned out.

  They were my family, what I’d been seeking for so very long.

  In a way, it felt like I’d already lost them.

  TWELVE

  Vera came two days later, in the afternoon.

  I ushered her in without exchanging any pleasantries, my relief at seeing her muddled with anger, deep in my chest, at what they’d said, the way they’d said it.

  She took a seat on my sofa, looking downright bashful, her hands folded in her lap, her face flushed. Dusty jumped up, and she nuzzled him briefly. She cleared her throat, and I took the seat opposite her. “I’ll get right to it: I really am sorry,” she said. “For springing all of that on you the other night.”

  I picked at a loose thread on the knee of my jeans. “It was strange not seeing you guys for a couple of days,” I said, without looking up. “I didn’t realize what a rut we’d gotten into.”

  I’d meant to say routine, but rut had come out instead. I wanted to hurt her, I supposed, for tipping the scales we’d balanced so well, for reminding me I couldn’t count on anyone.

  She didn’t take the bait. “I wanted to give you space.”

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  Vera tugged at the sleeves of her top—all black, as usual, and nearly sheer. “You didn’t call me, either, you know. I figured you didn’t want to talk after you ran out like that.”

  “I didn’t run out,” I said, averting my eyes as my voice cracked. “It was late. I was tired.”

  She abandoned her place on the sofa and sat next to me instead, hooking her arm around my shoulders. I didn’t shrug her off; it felt so good to have her near me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, steadying my voice, feeling foolish. “I don’t have a lot of people in my life anymore. I don’t have family, and I don’t have a partner, and it’s been nice spending time with you guys, and when you rip the rug out from under me like that, tell me people want to hurt John—which you’ve never even thought to hint at before—and don’t even give me a chance to take it in, and then ask me about watching your house . . . it’s like I mean nothing to you.”

  She held me closer, tucking my head into the crook of her neck. She smelled like laundry. Her lips found the edge of my forehead, planting a kiss right where my hairline began, and she began to slowly rub my back. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, Lucy. The reason we told you is because we care about you so much. I should never have mentioned money. I can see now how insulting that sounded.”

  I pulled away, disentangling myself. “What exactly did John mean when he said people wanted to hurt him? And why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think I, of all people, would understand something like that?”

  She scooted away from me and stared at her hands. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you would judge us.”

  “Judge you?” I asked. “Wait, does this have something to do with Rachel?”

  Vera looked up, her eyes cutting. “No,” she snapped. “It has nothing to do with her.”

  She exhaled slowly, and her tone softened. “I’m sorry. I might as well just tell you the truth. About a year ago, John started teaching art classes.”

  “In the cabin,” I said.

  She nodded. “The first few sessions went really well. They were way better than the normal hippie-dippie offerings here. People loved them—locals, mostly, but sometimes a weekender would drop in, too. Anyway, in February, he got the idea to do one-on-one lessons. I guess one of his students was asking, this girl Claire—she was in high school, but she took her work very seriously. I encouraged it, it just seemed like a natural extension of what he was already doing. He took on other private lessons, too. Only after a few months”—she swallowed—“there were rumors that he and Claire were . . .”

  I narrowed my eyes, weight pressing at my chest. “Were what?”

  Vera tugged at the collar of her top, as if suddenly hot. “I guess people thought, why is he giving these lessons way out in this cabin in the woods? Why not in town? Why not in our house, or at the gallery, where I was? Woodstock can be very progressive, but at the same time, it can be small-town, especially for the people who live here year-round. It’s a tight-knit community. Insular. People talk. Sometimes, people talk a lot.”

  My heart ticked faster. John wasn’t like that. John couldn’t be like that. “There were rumors that they were what, Vera?”

  She blinked slowly. “I don’t know, Lucy. It was all hearsay, but . . . well, you know.”

  Vera, brutally honest Vera. She’d run up against something even she couldn’t say out loud.

  “Did she actually . . . accuse him?”

  Vera shook her head quickly. “No, but still . . .” She pressed her hands to her knees. “I overheard someone talking about him at Platform, that bar we told you about—I used to go there for happy hour, after I closed up the gallery—maybe they didn’t realize his wife was sitting right there, or maybe they did and just didn’t care. Anyway, I went home, and I just lost it. I broke half the dishes in the cabinet. Good stuff, too. Stuff he’d gotten from his grandmother and all that. But when John got home, he swore up and down that nothing had ever happened. He seemed appalled that I’d even think it, with a teenager and everything. I asked him how the talk started, and he said he didn’t know. Maybe some of her friends let their imaginations get the best of them. Half the people in that class had a crush on him—you’ve seen John, he’s a good-looking guy.”

  “But if the girl never even said he did anything . . .”

  Vera sighed. “Her dad was furious, came to our house screaming, saying he knew something happened. Afterward, I tried to talk to Claire, but she didn’t want to talk to me. And then I guess people found out about that and thought I was harassing, well, a survivor, you know.” She lifted a hand, then let it drop. “I wasn’t harassing her. I was just trying to understand. I only ever tried to talk to her a couple of times, but people made it sound like I was stalking her or something, and then that got around, and it all just snowballed. People thought it didn’t matter if Claire accused John or not—she was a child, and tons of crimes like this are never reported, which I obviously know. I’m a feminist, too. I just . . .” Her v
oice trailed off.

  I knew the words running through my head were wrong. You believed these sorts of stories. You just did. That’s what you did if you were a good woman, a good human. I remember reading about that film director, how the girl he raped didn’t even want the government to go after him, not after so many years; I had told Ellie that it didn’t matter—he still deserved his punishment, no matter what the victim thought, what the victim said.

  Only this seemed different. This was John. I took a deep breath. “Do you actually think it’s true?”

  Vera pressed her lips together. “Call me awful, but I couldn’t believe my husband had a relationship with a sixteen-year-old.”

  Her eyes studied my face, searching for my reaction, and I knew it deep inside me: I believed in John’s goodness.

  In over a month of trying to quell my stupid crush, he’d never done anything even close to inappropriate with me. He loved Vera; even more, he respected her. I knew vile, hollow men. Davis. All those awful guys in college. John wasn’t one of them.

  What’s more, this explained it all. The graffiti. The way Maggie had told me to watch out for them. The tires, most definitely slashed by Claire’s father. It wasn’t an affair; it was a rumor.

  “I don’t believe it, either,” I said finally.

  A smile crept across Vera’s face.

  “So you want to leave because of this gossip?” I asked.

  She sighed. “If it were only that, I would stay and try my best to hold my head high. It’s the lawsuit that’s got us scared.”

  “Lawsuit?”

  She sank into the cushions, as if begging them to swallow her whole, and Dusty nestled himself between us. “Claire’s father. He’s a top contractor in the area—through his business, he’s become friends with a bunch of lawyers, even a judge—and he’s over here all the time, driving up and down the road. He says he’s just helping out his wife with her work, but I know the truth. I know he wants to scare us. Sam Alby.” She paused, narrowing her eyes at me. “You haven’t seen him, have you? When you moved in or anything?”